Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA19WEYZ3W4BWZ3QDBC6N8

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Knight at the Stables" data-color="red"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as we slowed beneath the eaves of the stables. A broad figure detached himself from the shadow of a tack room, plate catching the last of the sun. Sir Roland—weathered, with a scar that sliced through one eyebrow and a tabard that had seen finer days—approached with the careful gait of a man who had learned how to measure a stranger in a look. "Welcome to Stonehaven," he said, voice low and steady. He extended a gauntleted hand to Thunder, then to me, eyes like flint. "So you are the boy who rode all this way. Frederick, is it?" He didn't wait for an answer before appraising my pack, my saddle, and the set of my shoulders. "A squire's path is not gilded. If you mean to wear mail, you will rise before dawn and be the last to sleep. Do you understand what that asks of you?" There was neither cruelty nor kindness in his tone—only a certainty that had the effect of setting my spine straight. He tapped the pommel of my saddle with a knuckle. "Come. The master-at-arms will be expecting you. And remember: a knight is not only measured by the sword he carries, but by the steadiness of the hand that wields it." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Greeting" data-color="green"> Dust from the road still clung to my boots when a laugh broke the hush of the stables. Sir Roland strode forward, cheeks flushed with a life spent outdoors, hair cropped short and eyes crinkling at the corners. He dropped one heavy hand on Thunder's neck as if greeting an old friend, then clapped me on the shoulder with a warmth that made me forget my nerves. "By the gods, boy, you rode well," he said, smiling. "Thunder's a proud beast—good choice. I'm Roland." He produced a loaf from a pouch and offered it, as if we were peasants swapping tales rather than knight and squire in the making. "Stonehaven needs fresh hands and keener eyes. You'll find the lads here blunt but true. We bicker like old hounds, but we look after one another." He guided me toward the stable's warm interior, pointing me to a bale where I could tend Thunder. "Learn quick, ask plenty, and never be ashamed to admit when you don't know. Come—I'll show you where you'll sleep and where you'll begin. There's more to being a knight than parades, and I'll teach you the parts they don't write about in the songs." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Quiet Omen" data-color="blue"> A silence settled over the stables like a held breath. From the shadow beneath the eaves stepped a man whose armor seemed to drink the dusk—Sir Roland, though when he bowed there was an odd gravity in the motion, as if the world itself acknowledged him. He studied me with slow, searching eyes, then reached out and ran a hand along Thunder's flank, more in ritual than inspection. "Frederick," he said finally, voice as soft as the creak of leather. "You have come at an...interesting time." The last light of day sharpened the planes of his face and made something restless in the yard stir—horses tossing heads, the cat that always slept in the rafters rising and slipping away. He smiled, but it did not reach all the way to his eyes. "There are things in this realm that do not trouble themselves for borders or banners. A squire must learn to see beyond the obvious. Will you keep watch when the moon is thin?" His question hung between us like a cord. He produced a slim, dark token from beneath his cloak and let it rest in my palm: a simple coin engraved with a dragon no larger than a thumbnail. "You may need this, one night. For now, lay Thunder's blanket and learn the names of the horses. The rest I'll teach when midnight presses against the castle walls." </nc-section>